


Of Leather Gloves and Silk Satin

by chiralchaos



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Blood, Breathplay, Corsetry, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Minor Violence, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tseng is a dangerous man, and no one rocks a corset like Rufus Shinra, but mostly just porn, i guess, or ok a little bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiralchaos/pseuds/chiralchaos
Summary: There are a couple of reasons it is always Tseng sent on these missions. Firstly, he is discreet. Secondly, he is ruthlessly efficient. And thirdly, he enjoys it.There are some missions Tseng enjoys a little too much, and Rufus likes to reap the benefits when he comes home.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	Of Leather Gloves and Silk Satin

For anyone else it would have been a messy affair. There was blood on the walls, on the floor, even an errant splatter on the ceiling, but not a single drop had made its way onto the Turk’s suit. The Director was a professional after all, with a keen eye for detail and a solid understanding of how flayed flesh behaved.

It wasn’t in mercy, in the end, that he came to raise his gun. He just had better places to be.

“You’re too pretty to be a psychopath,” the man had choked out, in what would turn out to be the last words he ever spoke at all.

“And you say you’ve met my boss?” Tseng had replied with a cold smile, before pulling the trigger and walking away.

Not a hair out of place.

~

“Target down,”

There is minimal traffic on his return journey, which suits him well. The sun is low in the sky, throwing dramatic shadows across the roads, and he is wearing shades to block out the worst of the glare. Alone in the car, he has Rufus on loudspeaker.

“Did he have anything to say?” the Vice President asks. Tseng raises an eyebrow casually.

“He told me I was pretty,” he says with a smirk, imagining Rufus’s expression in response, “Otherwise, nothing. I didn’t make it easy for him. I left him there as a warning.”

There are a couple of reasons it is always Tseng sent on these missions. Firstly, he is discreet; send Elena on a task and she will second-guess herself and turn to Reno for advice, send Reno on a task and he will inevitably brag to Rude about how quickly he got it done, but send Tseng on a task and the man will plan, execute and exfiltrate entirely solo and nine times out of ten won’t even crease his suit doing it. Secondly he is ruthlessly efficient; send him in with six bullets and he’ll come back with one spare, give him twelve hours and he’ll be back in ten, offer him a clean-up crew and he’ll make sure he’s done it himself.

Thirdly though, and most importantly: he enjoys it.

There is a buzz that runs through his veins as he watches someone else’s run dry, and a light that sparks in his eyes as someone else’s fades out. Most people don’t get to see this, or if they do they don’t live long enough to tell anyone about it. Reno has seen it, and it chills him to the bone. It is enough to make even Rude uncomfortable. Rufus hasn't seen it for himself, but he _does_ see what happens to the Turk _after_ missions like this, and that is the main reason he sends him out on them in the first place. He doesn’t see the blood lust in his eyes, the cruelty on his lips, but he does get to taste the hunger on them later when it’s just the two of them, when the Turk is full of adrenaline and impulse, when he’s all hands and no pretense, just urgency and need.

“I’ll be back up top in an hour,” Tseng says, “I have to check in at the office for something first but then I’ll be heading home. Meet me there.”

“Are you giving me an order?” Rufus asks, somewhere between incredulous and impressed.

“Are you going to follow it?”

Tseng can picture the smile on Rufus’s lips. He wants to taste it. He flexes his gloved hands on the steering wheel, and quirks an eyebrow at the other man‘s silence.

“I know you have a key,” he continues, “So let yourself in. Enjoy yourself for me while you’re there. And wear something appropriate.”

~

And this is how, barely ninety minutes later, Tseng is sat back with Rufus Shinra’s mouth warm and wet on his dick.

The Turk groans quietly in approval, sinking further back into the couch, letting his head fall back and rocking his hips up just slightly. He can feel Rufus smile around him - he knows he’s good - and he reaches down to run his gloved fingers through blonde hair, twisting it, keeping control of the pace himself. He’s still riding high from the hit earlier and his skin is electric, wired so sensitive, and as much as he loves seeing the blonde’s head bobbing slowly up and down in his lap he prefers to hold him still, slowly slipping himself in and out of his mouth, pausing occasionally with his cock just resting heavy and wet on the other man’s lips. Rufus loves it, knows how good he looks when he peers up through pale lashes, pouts against pre-cum and saliva, and he smirks as he flicks his tongue out and lowers himself slowly forward again.

Tseng lets go of his hair, stroking it back from his forehead, and lets him sink down a couple of inches further of his own accord before stopping him, shifting his hips slightly, easing him back and off him completely. His eyes don’t leave Rufus’s lips and the blonde licks them, deliberately slowly, smirking as he does so. Tseng mirrors the expression unconsciously before speaking, voice deep.

“Show me what you’re wearing,” he says.

As far as anyone else is concerned the Shinra heir is dressed as he normally would be, albeit a little less tidy than normal, top button of his shirt undone, untucked at the bottom, but Tseng had told him to be dressed appropriately and he wasn‘t in the habit of letting the other man down; they both know there is more to his outfit than pale shirt and tailored grey trousers. Rufus smirks, rising to his feet and walking away a few paces. Tseng watches as he steps away, eyes lowering to track the deliberate sway of his hips. The Turk undoes his own shirt where he sits, one hand pushing the buttons open while the other hand drifts further down, idly stroking himself while he watches the other man in front of him. The drag of cold leather against his wet skin is entirely different from the warmth of the other man’s mouth and he bites the inside of his lip, fighting back the urge to push his hips up against his own touch; getting himself off isn’t why he ordered Rufus here after all.

Rufus stands six feet in front of him and starts with his belt, unbuckling it slowly, sliding the heavy leather free loop by loop and dropping it to the floor next to him, smiling at how the sound makes the other man jump almost imperceptibly. Not taking his eyes of Tseng’s for even a second he begins to undo the buttons of his own shirt next, moving slowly and deliberately. Watching him so closely means he gets to watch his line of sight follow his every move, button by button, until he finally shrugs the clothing off.

Tseng inhales, and the hand slowly working his own dick falters mid-stroke.

It’s no secret how people fawn over the Vice President and one of the things they comment on most often is his figure, his broad shoulders and tiny waist carving a striking silhouette into their collective psyche. Tseng of course is familiar with how he maintains this figure, knowing that it’s not all clean eating and cardio with Reno in the company gym. No, instead of just healthy lifestyle choices there is a variety of clothing that keeps that waist tucked in so tight, and Tseng is familiar with most of his tricks, but this is a design he has never seen on him before.

Rufus is wearing a white corset, steel-boned judging by the strict, straight lines it is forming, and it sits snugly against the ribs underneath his chest, tightened to pull his waist in just smaller than it would be when out in public. A white zip runs up the front of the item, with three thin leather straps running over it and across the front, silver buckles keeping each one in place. Rufus watches Tseng watching him, shamelessly lapping up the attention. He knows his angles - he brings one hand up to his hair, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, accentuating the long lines of his waist and his chest, the pale column of his neck, the lean, toned muscles of his arm. The other hand travels slowly down the front of the corset, fingers floating smoothly over each strap, each buckle, until he is palming himself through his trousers, already hard, getting harder still knowing what the sight of him must be doing to the other man. He smiles to himself at the thought alone and opens his eyes again, taking a peek at the Turk in front of him. Tseng has a tight grip on himself, hand moving slow and indulgently, and his eyes rove shamelessly everywhere the blonde knew they would - Rufus Shinra is nothing if not well-rehearsed poetry in motion.

“You want the rest, Mister Director?” the blonde says, eyes mischievous, not that Tseng can take his own off the outline of Rufus‘s cock long enough to notice.

“You know I do,” he responds, and Rufus chuckles quietly to himself. He slips his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and begins to slip them down, the tightness of the corset giving his hips a much sharper angle for them to fall past. He toes them aside when they fall to the floor, leaving him entirely naked aside from the leather and silk laced around his middle - or so Tseng thinks anyway. Rufus turns around to retrieve something from the pocket of the trousers he let fall to the floor, and Tseng is only able to appreciate the fine white laces crisscrossed up the Shinra heir’s lower back for a second before his eyes are immediately drawn down to the round curve of his ass, and not for the reasons they normally are; there is a thick purple disc pushed flush against his cheeks, hinting at the toy inserted further inside. Tseng recognises it immediately, amethyst glass, one of Rufus’s favourites, and he isn’t sure if it’s the sight alone that makes his breath catch or the thought of the blonde playing with himself that does it, teasing himself, stretching himself out slowly while waiting for the Turk to come back to work him over and fill him up instead, deeper than the toy ever could.

“ _Rufus Shinra_ …” he murmurs. Rufus peeks back over his shoulder, wiggling his hips teasingly before straightening up, bottle of lube in his hand that he has retrieved from the floor. He raises an eyebrow and looks the Turk up and down before nodding at what remains of his suit.

“Your turn, don‘t you think?” he asks, mischief still in his eyes. He brings a fingertip up to trace his own bottom lip as he watches the other man push his hips up from the couch, stripping his own trousers off and kicking them away. Rufus unconsciously licks the finger on his lip as he watches the other man, now naked save for the open white shirt and leather gloves, and when he is summoned forward with a tip of the Turk’s chin he immediately obliges, sauntering forward and climbing into his lap, straddling him completely. Tseng’s hands fall to his waist, black leather stroking the smooth white satin, the long rigid straps, the cold, unyielding buckles. He looks pleased, a certain light in his dark eyes, lips in an unconscious upward curve.

“This looks good on you…” he murmurs, virtually a purr, and Rufus leans forward so the Turk can press his lips against his chest, run his tongue along a clavicle. Tseng drops one hand from his waist down past his hip, around to his ass, and circles the smooth glass protruding there. “How long have you been wearing this?” he asks against his neck. Rufus wiggles just slightly, hand on Tseng’s shoulder. He pushes the Turk’s shirt down so it falls around his elbows instead.

“Since you called,” he answers, running his hands down the other man‘s chest, fascinated by the transitions between smooth skin and rough scar tissue, souvenirs from missions past. He sounds pleased with himself. “You told me to enjoy myself, didn’t you?”

He gasps slightly as Tseng hums against his skin.

“Oh I did,” Tseng confirms, and the warm kisses he has been planting along the blonde’s neck turn to nips, gentle bites, each one soothed with a flick of the tongue. He nudges the glass toy at his fingertips experimentally and notes how Rufus shifts with each move. He holds it and starts to ease it out, only to let it be pulled back in again, teasing. Rufus’s breath is hot.

“ _Tseng_ …” he murmurs. He sits himself further up on the Turk’s lap, bringing their cocks together, and Tseng’s hips buck unintentionally as the blonde takes both of them in his free hand. Tseng continues to ease the toy back and forth, and a soft moan escapes the Rufus's lips before he puts his forehead against the other man’s. “ _Stop_ ,” he says in a breath, hips rolling back against Tseng’s hand and forward into his own, chasing the friction that is both too much and still not yet enough. “Can you just …”

Tseng smirks, an expression Rufus is more used to wearing himself, and the Shinra heir isn’t sure if he wants to lick it straight off his lips in desire or smack it off in frustration.

“I _can_ just,” the Turk says. He tips his head, arching up to meet Rufus’ lips with his own as he tightens his grip on the glass toy, slowly easing it out completely and catching the blonde’s gentle moan on his tongue. He brings both his hands up, running the smooth leather across the firm corset bones, the soft, pale skin of the blonde’s chest, dragging teasingly across his nipples before travelling back down and taking him by the waist again. Rufus flicks the cap of the bottle in his hand and tips it over where he still holds them together, cold, thick lube dripping down onto them both and over his hand. He strokes them together, tipping his own head back as one of Tseng’s hands travels back up, tracing shapes along his exposed throat with his fingertips. He swallows, throat bobbing against the leather, and another moan escapes as he strokes them just once more before letting go of himself completely and focusing on Tseng instead. The Turk inhales sharply, swallowing a sound of his own as he pushes himself into the other man’s hand.

“Come here,” he says, dropping his hands down to pull Rufus closer, and the blonde is more than willing to oblige. He rises up on his knees and shifts forward, Tseng sliding further down in his seat to make room for him, and with the Turk’s grip firmly around his waist to guide him he sinks down onto him slowly, taking the other man inch by agonisingly slow inch before pausing for breath, rising almost entirely off him and then sinking down a second time, taking him all the way in and eliciting an appreciative groan from the Turk. Rufus rests his hands on Tseng’s shoulders and leans against him as he adjusts to the fullness, so different from the cold glass he had been wearing before, and his breath catches as the Turk begins to rock his hips, teasing Rufus back into movement, uncharacteristically impatient. Tseng’s grip tightens, controlling how the other man moves above him, around him, and it’s all he can do not to hold those hips still and fuck into him himself. But no - he wants to see Rufus earn his release himself.

“God you feel good …” Rufus breathes like Tseng doesn't already know, rocking his hips as best he can with his waist constricted and finding the best angle, the best spots for the other man to push up against, and when he finds what he is looking for he leans back, one hand gripping onto the Turk’s knee behind him for balance. The other hand he brings back to his own cock, and he strokes himself shamelessly in time with the rise and fall of his own hips.

The sight of the blonde before him, leaning back, indulged and exposed, has Tseng’s eyes darkening and his mouth hanging open. His eyes rove all over the other man’s body - from the sharp cut of his jaw, slack like his own, to the pale skin of his chest now starting to flush red with exertion and pleasure, from the pinch of the corset against his skin as he rides up and down to the slickness of his hand running up and down his own shaft, grip tighter than Tseng would use for himself. Being buried in the other man as he is though is a whole different kind of tightness, hot and overwhelming, and he settles for closing his eyes and tipping his head back, letting the sound of skin on skin - Rufus’s on his, Rufus’s on his own - inform his brain of what his eyes are missing. One of his hands trails down to the blonde’s ass, squeezing hard and eliciting a shameless moan; the other hand snakes up his back, tracing the metal rivets, the fine weave of the corset through his gloves, and tangling the thick laces around his fingers.

Rufus has never kept his corsetry on while fucking anyone before and it is a whole new experience, every sensation from the firm grip on his waist to the leather on his skin heightened, more acute. He can’t arch his back for the angle he wants so his hips have to work harder, and his muscles are on the most delectable fire as he rides the man beneath him. He can’t breathe fully into his stomach so is breathing instead from his chest, shorter, faster breaths, and the restriction alone is enough to make him light-headed, every perfect thrust from the other man inside him making him see stars. He is burning up. His hand digs into Tseng’s knee behind him, and he pumps himself faster as his breath stutters.

Tseng opens his eyes again, watching him hungrily. There is sweat beading on his chest. He wants to taste it.

“Going to come?” he asks, voice low, watching every fraction of Rufus’s expression as his movements become uneven, staccato. The blonde’s head is tipped back, long pale throat stretched out and marked with Tseng’s ministrations from earlier, and he nods breathlessly.

“Yes,” he gasps. Tseng can feel it in the way his movements have slowed and he rocks his hips a little harder to keep him moving. He times it perfectly; Rufus inhales, eyes rolled back in pleasure, and before he can breathe out again Tseng tugs hard on the laces in his hand. The corset constricts, cutting off the exhalation, and Rufus is left momentarily breathless as he tries to arch his back against the unforgiving steel bones. All he can do is cry out in both shock and pleasure as the twin sensations push him over the edge; he comes over his own hand and onto the man beneath him, and Tseng continues to hold the laces tight as Rufus rides out his orgasm, leaning back into the Turk’s hands, panting in short shallow breaths while his diaphragm is still so tightly bound.

Tseng grits his teeth, fighting to catch his own breath, not wanting to come yet, but the sight of Rufus coming undone in his lap has him closer than he wants to be. The laces are wound so tightly around his fingers that they are almost bruising, even through the leather, and for a moment, a brief flash, Tseng considers never letting go. In his lap Rufus is still sinking back, supported only by the Turk’s hands, and sweat beads across his throat. His hips are still jerking as his body comes down, and his chest rises and falls quickly, unable to suck in the full breaths he needs.

Tseng wants to _devour_ him.

He makes quick work of the buckles on the front of the blonde’s corset, unzipping the item and dropping it to the floor, but before Rufus can as much as exhale in sudden relief Tseng’s hands are on his waist again and they are flipped; Tseng is over him in an instant, and the shock of the cold leather couch against the newly-exposed skin of his back makes Rufus gasp as he is pushed down into it. One of his legs is over the Turk’s shoulder and Tseng has a bruising grip on his hips, and he pushes back into him in one movement, fucking him harder and deeper now he is pinned down and already utterly boneless from his own release. Rufus is wrecked; his head is thrown back and his voice escapes in shameless cries with every hard thrust, one hand gripping on desperately to the back of the couch and the other scrabbling in vain at the man above him, nails digging long red marks as he grabs at his arm, his back, tangling in a fistful of long, dark hair.

Tseng himself, usually composed and quiet even in bed, is breathing heavily, voice carrying rough on every exhalation as he drills into the man beneath him. Rufus tugs his hair too hard and he bares his teeth, and Rufus isn’t sure if he’s going to kiss him or tear his throat out, and he wouldn’t have the power to resist either anyway. A breathless _“Fuck!”_ is all he can manage as the edges of his vision begin to white out, and he feels the leather of Tseng’s gloves against his jaw, past his ear, tangling into his own hair too.

Tseng’s heavy breathing turns into growls, low and behind gritted teeth, and when he comes it is with a cry of his own that Rufus has never heard, the Turk seldom so vocal. He pushes back into Rufus again a few more times as he slows down, head fallen forward, panting to catch his breath, and Rufus takes the chance to wriggle slightly, ease the hand free from his hair. The world slowly stops spinning, starts to come back into focus as he catches his own breath, and he nudges his leg back against the other man, a hint that he needs to move. Tseng shifts so that the blonde’s leg can sit about his waist and not be pressed between them anymore and Rufus pushes the Turk’s hair back, looking to meet his eyes, but in response Tseng melts down and rests his forehead against the his shoulder instead. Rufus can feel his pounding heartbeat against his skin, relishes the feel of his sweat-slicked skin under his fingers, feeling the aggravated claw marks he left already beginning to rise up angrily across his shoulders.

Tseng never comes inside him, and something about this realisation makes him want to laugh. He should feel cheap, used, fucked into another man’s couch until he was seeing stars without so much as a hello for preamble. But instead he is lying here with the Director of the Turks, usually all shadows and subterfuge, slumped utterly boneless against his chest. _I did this_ , Rufus thinks, shifting his hips and arching his back just gently. _I reduced this man to a wreck_. It’s hard to feel cheap and used when he feels so powerful and utterly, utterly invincible.

Tseng shifts, rests his cheek on his chest instead, and Rufus reaches up to smooth through his hair, heavy and silken between his fingers. He can feel the Turk’s heart rate coming down. His own does too.

“Not just anyone can get a booty call from the VP you know,” he says with a chuckle, and Tseng laughs into the crook of his neck.

“Believe me, I know,” the Turk replies, “And not just anyone can order a man killed for cheating him at poker, but here were are.” He slips out of the other man and settles back on an elbow alongside him, legs still tangled, half on the couch and half off. 

“Pfft, there was more to it than that and you know it,” Rufus stretches beneath the Turk, but his skin is still hypersensitive; the movement makes him shiver and it runs through Tseng too. The Turk studies his eyes, his mouth, the curve of his lips, and smiles ruefully.

“You’re too pretty to be a psychopath,” he says, and Rufus raises his eyebrows in mock offence.

“Have you even met yourself?” he responds, and, tightening his grip on the other man‘s hair, he kisses him hard.

~~~

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely intend to write more of dangerous bloodlust Tseng, but for now let's just let the VP enjoy the side-effects, yeah?


End file.
